"Perfect." She responds absently, and more eagerly than she means to, but with just the two of them there, without the world peering in, she's all right with it. Her fingers are pressed against the glass of the open doors. She's not budging from this spot.

It takes her a good minute or so to muster up enough clarity of thought (because the river is right there, and the spirals of the church are visible over the rooftops, and there's this sudden calm that's finding her with all the city right there at her feet) to even bother carrying on the conversation. "How's your leg?"